Can No One Win Battles if I'm Not There

by Geoffrey Watson

  He had worked with the Hornets on several previous occasions and was the only cavalry commander that Welbeloved trusted to use his head as well as his courage when fighting the French.

  He and his second-in-command, Major Muir listened intently when Welbeloved had explained how all the other valleys were completely blocked by cavalry, conspicuous gun emplacements and enough infantry to give the impression that there were thousands more concealed on the reverse slopes over the cols.

  They all rode together along the extended ridge that was effectively the col between the two wide valleys and the sloping plain where no less than two divisions of Wellington’s army were now camped. The view was impressive, with up to ten thousand troops squeezed into the available space.

  Welbeloved’s wave took them all in. “That is the view that I want the French reconnaissance parties to get, Gentlemen. They can come up either or both of these two valleys, having somehow eluded both the squadrons of light dragoons, who made realistic, heroic, but largely ineffectual efforts to prevent them.”

  Colonel Anstruthers grinned at Muir and commented. “My lads have not been trained to be quite as devious as the Hornets, Sir Joshua, but I shall explain to them that we are not seeking a fight, but only to wipe the Frog’s eyes. Some of my bad characters are forever trying it on with their officers. Be sure they shall enjoy a chance to do it to the French. That it is permissible might just take some of the pleasure from it,” he added thoughtfully.

  “Let us hope, however, that they come in at least twice our numbers. It shall give us a legitimate reason for not going straight at ‘em.

  “If manoeuvring against them is what yew enjoy, Colonel, I can think of no reason why yew should not do so, but do allow some of them to get away from yew. We need them to see what we want them to see and get back to report what they have discovered. Try and spare the officers if yew can. Their account is likely to be given more credence.

  Regarding the other valley, as Major Muir is unused to our ways, perhaps he should tolerate Colonel Vere as a companion? George can entertain him with stories about how nasty the Hornets can really be.”

  Muir looked disconcerted, but Anstruthers nodded agreement. “I know Lord George, Angus. He shall be able to advise you on strategy, but I am sure shall be the first to insist that you are in command.”

  Angus Muir merely said, “feel welcome to join us Lord George, I am more than happy to accept your orders, should you feel it necessary.”

  Vere grinned. “Handsome of you, Angus. We shall get along well. I don’t give orders most of the time. With our own people, normally I just tell ‘em what I should like to happen and they know what to do. Oh, and I don’t use my title, it is courtesy only as my pater has no plans to leave us yet. Just call me George if we are not on parade.”

  * * *

  By the last week in June, the sun was becoming unbearable during the day and consideration for their horses suggested that the French patrols would be early in the morning or late in the afternoon into the evening. Early morning ought to be favoured, as the pre-dawn darkness should hide the gathering horsemen around Badajoz from allied watchers in the hills around Elvas. They ought to be able to reach their areas of exploration unseen.

  Welbeloved had chosen a viewpoint not far from Elvas that would give him, at daylight, a panoramic view over the whole of the ten miles of foothills that his temporary command was guarding. Lieutenant Pom was sitting quietly beside him. Lord Wellington had released him from his staff duties to act as Welbeloved’s aide, assuming that Welbeloved, like the rest of his generals, would need to communicate with his commanders.

  It wasn’t like that at all. This was to be almost entirely a cavalry engagement and events would develop far too quickly for Welbeloved to be able to change the orders to his commanders, even if he wanted to do so.

  As with his own men, he had talked at length with all the cavalry commanders and their squadron officers. They all knew exactly what he expected them to do and why. Very rarely did they have the luxury of knowing why they did what they were ordered to do and the idea of fooling the French made the whole thing into a kind of game.

  The officers in particular had been competitive since childhood and their enthusiasm was palpable. Pom would have to be content with sitting and observing, chatting and learning, for Welbeloved would make sure that he understood everything that occurred.

  The enemy obliged by starting their probes at daylight. They had spread out across the whole of the front before the sun rose. Once there was light enough to see, there could be no possibility of them being able to approach unobserved. Cavalry was cavalry and they were all ostentatious in their dress.

  Even the most numerous; the green-clad chasseurs à cheval; had brightly coloured facings, braid and shiny shakos with brass accoutrements. They could be picked out with no difficulty for five miles either side of Welbeloved’s observation point.

  Brightly coloured uniforms apart, the French were pragmatic about reconnaissance and had not sent out any of their heavy cavalry to do a job where speed could well be essential. Only chasseurs and hussars were to be seen; not even a unit of the dreaded lancers with their strange, lozenge-crowned czapka shakos.

  It was a relief to Welbeloved. So far in the Peninsular, the French had been able to field greater numbers of horsemen on most occasions. If the dragoons and lancers had been held in reserve, then the allied cavalry would have equal or greater numbers, except in the central valleys, where two regiments of chasseurs and a regiment of vivid hussars were offering Anstruthers all the excuse he needed to be circumspect about his aggression.

  His two squadrons were outnumbered by three to one, but they knew perfectly well that the French were not here to fight. It was a reconnaissance. They only wanted information and needed to get past Anstruthers’ light dragoons if they were to get it. They were all professional soldiers and would much prefer to manoeuvre the rosbifs out of their way without losing lives for no good reason; their own or those of their opponents. It was a contest and could prove most enjoyable if the enemy were not to become tedious.

  They were advancing up the broad valley in columns of half-squadrons, with two to three hundred yards between each half squadron. These gaps would, of course, become less as the valley became narrower towards the top.

  It was a long way off, but the valley narrowed gently as it rose and Anstruthers could not afford to wait to be swamped as the columns were forced together. He gave rapid orders and his squadron advanced at the trot towards the two half-squadrons on the French left.

  They were hussars and were not interested. Both halves halted and waited to be certain that they were to be the target, then turned and retired at the same pace as the British advance.

  Anstruthers had trained his men well. A short bugle call brought them round in a slight wheel to their left to engage the two chasseur half-squadrons in the centre.

  The chasseurs reacted in exactly the same way as the hussars. They stopped and went into retreat, matching the pace of the British. The hussars also stopped at this point and as soon as Anstruthers wheeled his men again towards the outer squadron of chasseurs, they resumed their advance up the valley.

  It was obvious that whatever the British squadron did, some of the French were going to get past. It was what Welbeloved wanted, but what bothered Anstruthers was that it was all becoming too easy for them. He had been told to make them earn their information and it felt as though he was giving it away.

  He knew that the middle squadron would turn about and advance again, as soon as he was committed against their right wing. He watched all the chasseurs carefully and gave the order to canter. This was matched immediately by the already retreating outer squadron and the centre chasseurs halted in order to resume their advance.

  It was coming to the decisive moment and he wondered whether all his drills and training would now be worth while. What he was planning was not going to be easy at the pace they were moving.

  His trump
eter sounded a right wheel. His right wing slowed to a trot. His left wing swung round, but oh so slowly he felt. Then they were all in line again and the bugle sounded the charge.

  It could never have happened if the French had not been so intent on playing games to get past him. The left wing of the light dragoons smashed through the right hand French half-squadron, leaving havoc in their wake. Most of the chasseurs were so unprepared that their swords were still sheathed.

  The second half of the squadron was two hundred yards farther on. They had managed to draw their swords and were facing their enemy, but all of them were standing still when those British that had galloped past their comrades, crashed into and through them.

  It was brutal and bloody. It was not what they had come for, for God’s sake! This was only a reconnaissance. The remnants of their other half-squadron were already galloping back down the valley and their comrades – those that lived – were very soon following.

  The bugler blew the recall and rally and the light dragoons came together in good time to confront the other chasseur squadron, before they could carry out their intention of piling into the fray already in progress.

  Anstruthers’ men had suffered very few casualties and, after their easy success, were more than ready to take on an army. The French could not see the point. They had seen their hussars cantering toward the col at a much greater cost than they had bargained for.

  Almost disdainfully, they turned and trotted away, ready to turn and fight if they had to, but not wanting to waste their lives in a stupid little skirmish like this.

  The light dragoons tended their few casualties and spread out again to await any of the hussars foolish enough to return down the valley.

  In the adjacent valley, Major Muir had almost forgotten that he had Vere as an observer. This valley was slightly narrower and the French were advancing cautiously in three squadrons in column, obviously ready to deploy to meet whatever challenge was offered.

  Muir had his men drawn up in four lines in a single squadron unit. He viewed the three approaching squadrons with some concern. Each of them was equal in numbers to his own squadron. Although he was aware that the enemy was only reconnoitring and did not want a serious fight, he was not convinced that the French would see things in quite the same way when they had massed three times the force of the squadron that was opposing them.

  The thought occurred to him, how much more comforting it would be if the rest of the regiment was with him in support. Then he remembered that Colonel Vere was riding beside him.

  He made his decision. “I intend to challenge the hussar squadron on their right wing, Sir. Do you not think that the sight of one of your mounted squadrons, ready in support, shall remind the Frogs that they are not here to fight a battle, no matter how small the opposition?”

  Vere laughed gleefully. “Glad you made the suggestion, Angus. I’ve kept a squadron ready mounted in case help may be needed. Go off and play with the hussars and I’ll have my lads keep the chasseurs in the centre from interfering.”

  With a feeling of relief, Muir saluted and got his squadron moving off at a trot toward the hussars. Vere turned and held one arm aloft until B Squadron appeared and trotted down to join him, Captain Otto Fischer grinning hugely at the prospect. Vere knew that it was a huge grin, it had to be to be visible under the enormous moustache that was covering half his face.

  “Take the middle squadron of chasseurs, Otto. If they stand, halt within range and give them a volley. Listen for my whistle. Given the chance I want you to chase the other chasseur squadron up the valley, but half-heartedly, mind. Some of them have to get back with the intelligence.

  B Squadron set out after the light dragoons and the centre squadron of chasseurs immediately stopped edging over towards the hussars in support. Both the French squadrons halted their advance and stood waiting in four open lines.

  Vere trotted along behind, keeping a keen eye on the squadron of unchallenged chasseurs that continued its advance, unconcerned with other people’s troubles except for every face in its ranks being turned towards the four squadrons on their right, facing off against each other rather like packs of territorial wolves.

  The two French squadrons remained still, waiting, not even bothering to draw their swords. They sat there, almost smugly, as if saying: ‘let us all be sensible about this. One of our squadrons has already got past you, so we do not need to be unpleasant to each other’.

  They had a point. As far as they knew, they were evenly matched and if they had to fight, it was going to be costly to both sides, so why bother when it was of so little importance. They were not to know that the Hornets never did what was expected and that Colonel Anstruthers had not only worked with the Hornets, he had actually trained many of the Germans in cavalry practices.

  His regiment of light dragoons, unusually for cavalry, practised their marksmanship whenever possible. Not only that, but they had been advised by expert Hornets on how to polish their bores and cast their own balls to be close fitting. Their carbines were still muzzle-loading of course and only really accurate at short range, but they rarely needed to reload quickly and had little need for skirmishing skills.

  Muir brought his squadron, trotting steadily, to about a hundred yards from the hussars, spreading them into an extended line before they all halted together, smartly unholstered their loaded carbines and fired a single mass volley. Obscured from the view of the French by the smoke of the discharge, they re-holstered their weapons, drew their swords and burst through the smoke into the amazed, shocked and badly damaged squadron in front of them.

  Otto Fischer’s squadron was some distance behind, but was able to halt in echelon almost at the same time, but about two hundred yards from the chasseurs, where they delivered their standard split volley. Their subsequent charge into the thoroughly disconcerted and disorganised survivors was seconds only later than Muir’s squadron.

  Having lost so many men to such unconventional and unprincipled tactics, the two mauled squadrons retired from the contest at speed: they fled! They may have regrouped after a mile or so. Muir was not interested, his bugler recalled the pursuit to tidy up, collect prisoners, wounded and riderless horses and tend to the small collection of cuts and slashes that his men had incurred.

  Vere and his men were already hurrying, slowly, after the chasseur squadron that had cantered past the engagement and could now be seen disappearing up towards the col.

  The two roads, or rather wide tracks up the valleys, joined together yards only before the col. The col itself was a wide, gently curving gateway into the next valley. The reverse slope opened out into a wide tract of country, crowded to capacity with infantry and cavalry bivouacs and encampments.

  The size of it was deceptive, as less than three thousand men of the two divisions were actually on view, but it would need at least half-an-hour of uninterrupted observation to be sure of this. Welbeloved had no intention of letting any Frenchman get more than a few hectic minutes to arrive at his conclusions.

  Lieutenant Colonel Roffhack was waiting with C and D Squadrons, each occupying the broken, rising ground on either side of the quarter mile width of the col. Major Hagen with A Squadron had been held ready, mounted and waiting to support Anstruthers in the first valley. Much to his disappointment, his squadron had not been needed and had now retired below the ridge of the col to await a summons to chase the French back to Badajoz, if it should prove necessary.

  All the Hornissen now had Roberto’s new cartridges, which gave their carbines an effective range of two hundred and fifty yards when lying in ambush. The two squadrons were in cover on either side of the col, about quarter of a mile apart. The whole area of the col was a killing zone, with the fifty yards in the middle within range of both squadrons.

  The hussars that had escaped Anstruthers’ attentions arrived first and spread out unchallenged along the ridge of the col. The Hornets opposite the arrivals were to have the first shot and Roffhack calculated that if he waited
to trap the chasseurs coming up the second valley, he needed to allow the first arrivals nearly ten minutes observation.

  Quickly, he revised his estimate when he noticed the fast pace of the chasseurs, probably due to the rapidly reformed B Squadron that was now cantering after them, only half a mile away. A succession of short whistle blasts told his hidden squadron to be ready. A long, loud blast when the chasseurs reached the col, started the massacre.

  There was no need to spare the chasseurs, as the hussars had already had long enough to see the valley full of troops. They were squadron strength when they breasted the slope and there was a squadron of Hornets waiting for them. Almost the entire squadron was shot from the saddle by the first split volley and C Squadron immediately turned their attention to the hussars. They were a much more challenging target.

  To start with, the Hornets had been asked to reverse their usual practice of picking off the officers first. This time they were told to keep them alive if possible. Welbeloved wanted them to get back to Badajoz with their hard-won intelligence. Secondly, the hussars were spread out along the col to get a view into the valley and only the narrow flanks were exposed to the two squadrons of Hornets at a range of over a hundred yards in each case.

  In such a situation, those in ambush abandoned volley firing and patiently awaited their turn, firing four or five shots only, but every half second. It resulted in a continuous discharge of shots that consumed the end of the line of hussars very like a burning fuse, rapidly sweeping it away.

  The Hussars were already moving away, alerted by the destruction of the chasseurs, but it had only been a reprieve of thirty seconds. Only about a quarter of their strength was lost by the time C Squadron stopped firing and D Squadron took up the challenge.